Page 74 of When We Were Enemies
“Yeah, Haymark Garden Inn,” I clarify.
“Perfect,” he says, taking a left.
“Who is that?” Mom asks, and I cringe. Do I lie, or do I tell the truth?
“My Uber driver,” I say with a guilty shrug toward Patrick.
“Mm-hmm. Sure it is,” she says, her response loaded with suspicion and innuendo. Conrad says something in the background. She changes to a stage whisper. “Listen—take your time. We’re stuck here for a while still. There’s no shame in a harmless flirtation ...”
I cut her off, not sure how much Patrick can hear.
“I better go, Mom.”
“You’re so your father’s child,” she says as though it’s a massive insult, but I never take it that way.
“See you tonight,” I say, preempting any further commentary with a decisive goodbye. “Love you.”
“Love you, t—” she says, and hits the end button before finishing. I drop the phone into my bag and stow it in the back seat as we drive in silence for a moment.
“Mrs.Lee said thank you, by the way,” Father Patrick fills in, not acknowledging the call, and I follow his lead, avoiding the topic of my meddling mother, assuming the dodge either means he heard nothing of the conversation, or he heard all of it.
“She should thankyou. You’re the one who did the footwork. Or is that your priestly humility?”
“It wouldn’t be humility if I bragged about it,” he says, making me laugh.
“Good point. I won’t tempt you into pride.”
“Yes. Get thee behind me!”
“I’m Satan now?” I ask after finishing the scripture reference in my head.
“No, no—not you! I was talking about pride. It’s always been a challenge,” he confesses like it’s no big deal he’s sharing his temptations and sins with me and not the other way around.
“You? Prideful?” I shake my head at the idea. “Spend one day doing my job and you’d see yourself more clearly. You just met my mom.” Not talking about my mom lasted all of two minutes.
“Vanity and pride are not the same thing. Vanity is about what other people think of you; pride is about what you think of yourself,” he says somberly, no longer playful.
“I bet you’re too hard on yourself,” I say, nibbling timidly on the edge of my manicured nail. I want to understand that secret something that changed “Patrick” into “Father Patrick.”
“Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecution, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak then I am strong.Second Corinthians, chapter twelve: verse ten,” he quotes, which is a handy way to dodge a real conversation.
“I think I ...hatethat,” I say as I digest the scripture, something about it hitting me the wrong way.
Father Patrick pulls into the hotel parking lot. I direct him to a spot closest to my room. He puts the car in park and turns to look at me.
“I don’t know what to tell ya. It’s from the Bible,” he says, like that’s the definitive word on the matter.
“I don’t care if it’s from the Bible or from Dr.Phil. I don’t like it. I hate this idea religions glom onto that God gives out pain as somekind of prize to humans to teach us a lesson or make us grow. It’s pretty messed up.”
His forehead wrinkles at my vehement response.
“For me it’s a relief—gives purpose to our earthly pains. How do I explain to a mom whose four-month-old was diagnosed with terminal leukemia that God is unwilling to heal her baby despite endless fasting and prayers? If I believe God loves us, then even the worst moments in our lives must be for some good.” He speaks with an unintentional charisma, but it still doesn’t sit right with me.
“You don’t know how many times I heard that when Dean was sick. ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ But if I’m going to wrangle my brain into accepting the presence of God, I’d rather assume he doesn’t get involved with human dramas. Because if he chooses to help Martha find her lost keys but not that baby with leukemia, then God’s a jerk.” I tap the dashboard passionately.
“God’s reasons aren’t necessarily our reasons.” Father Patrick leans against the driver’s-side door, his priest’s collar more obvious at this angle. “If a toddler cries in his car seat, we don’t let him out. It’s about perspective.”
“Perspective?” The term sounds so arrogant, like I’m narrow-minded or shortsighted and that’s why I don’t “get it.” I unbuckle my seat belt and cross one leg under the other. “Do you know what it’s like to lose someone?”
